Like the flaws of an old marble. " The doctor was in the middle fifties, gray and careworn, but with alert blue eyes and a gentle mouth. There was a mad musician, seemingly rapt in admiration of the notes he was extracting from a child's violin. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. He was so depressed and disheartened that he did not then believe he would ever write again. His fingers slipped under the collar of her linen shift and he tore it open with a swipe.
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